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afternoon.”
    James thought of Magdalena at the ball park, smoking, and wearing all the colors Pop hated on her face.
    “So don’t tell him a thing, you understand?” Her face was set. “Don’t tell him about the game, or Mama, or me, or nothing.”
    “I…I wasn’t going to tell Pop about the game.” James felt his face flush. “I never want Pop to know what I did…”
    “Not just that, I mean nothing !” Magdalena’s voice sharpened.
    “I wasn’t going to…”
    “Listen.” She leaned closer. “I know you don’t want Pop to hear about the game. But he doesn’t need to hear anything, you understand? Nothing.”
    Magdalena was like Mama, she helped him feel better when Pop was hard on him. But he didn’t think she was doing that now. This wasn’t about helping him. Maybe not even about keeping Pop from finding out she’d been looking like a hag and smoking like a whore in public.
    Magdalena turned back to the mirror and focused on her hair, her hands whisking over it, making it look smoother than it really was. The rain was loud on the roof, and James worried they wouldn’t hear Pop coming. They all did what they could to avoid Pop’s criticism. Even Magdalena. But what she didn’t do was care. She didn’t care if Pop liked her or not. At least that’s what she said. He didn’t understand how she couldn’t care. What Pop thought was important; he made that very clear.
    “Magdalena, I heard Pop was a good ballplayer. Is that true?”
    Her fingers stopped. He could hear her draw in a breath, slow and deep, as she stared into the mirror. “They say he was,” she finally said, her reflection focused on James. “He doesn’t like to talk about it, though. Where’d you hear that?”
    “Mr. Morgan.”
    Kitchen noise rose above the pelting of the raindrops. Magdalena’s reflection gazed at James long and hard, then she turned away from the mirror and bent close to him. He waited for her to talk, tell him what Pop had been saying all along: James wasn’t a good ballplayer. But Pop had been, and that’s why he didn’t bother to come to the games. Magdalena lifted her hand, ran her fingers over his dripping hair. She picked up wet strands and moved them to the side.
    “Wish I had your hair,” she finally said.
    “What?”
    “Your hair’s so dark. It’s not nothing-hair like mine. You’re special, James, You have good things about you I wish I had.” She pressed her lips together in a tight line, and he could see the fresh layer of lipstick squish between them. “Mr. Morgan say anything else?”
    “He showed me how to bat better. He didn’t say it, but he showed me how because I’m small. And he said you’re not a hag. The reason you don’t need makeup is because you’re beautiful. Like Mama.”
    Magdalena’s eyes grew wide; she looked surprised for a second. Then she snorted, unladylike, and dropped her hand from his head. She slumped back against the washstand. “He would know that much, I guess,” she said, not even looking at James.
    James frowned. “Know what much?”
    Magdalena looked at him, her eyes bright and hard. Then they softened. “About baseball and being not so big. He’s not all that tall himself. So maybe he had to figure out tricks to play better, if he played.” She straightened. “But there’s still something about makeup and beauty. Makeup makes women more beautiful. All women. And he knows it.”
    James didn’t like the way his sister talked about Mr. Morgan. He’d been good to help James, and he’d said nice things about her and his family. “Mr. Morgan knows what he’s talking about. What he showed me about batting worked. If I choke up on the bat, I’ll hit better.”
    Magdalena started to snort again, but she stopped. “That’s good, little brother,” she said, twisting her mouth like she was thinking. “Mr. Morgan did right helping you. It took courage. He’s a good man.”
    The way she said it didn’t sound right to James, she